“Why did you quit? Because you had no New York outlet?”
“No. Not being in a New York paper didn’t bother me. That’s just good for free tickets to theaters and free tabs at restaurants. That’s not my scene. I’m a writer. At least I think I am. But NPA allowed every editor in every small town to hack my column to bits. Sometimes they only ran three lines. Three lines of a column that had taken me six hours to write. Writing doesn’t come easy to me. I sweat over it. And for some guy to toss six hours of my life into a wastebasket—” Robin shook his head as if he felt actual pain. “At least at IBC I’m able to be a news analyst and there’s no editing. I’ve got complete freedom—just the usual station disclaimer at the end.”
This time Watson’s smile was accompanied by an approving nod. Then a sympathetic sigh. “But it doesn’t pay well.”
“Enough to live on. My needs are simple. A hotel room. Enough paper for my typewriter,” this time Robin grinned like a small boy, “and I steal all the paper and carbon from IBC.”
“Writing the great book?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“When do you get the time?”
“Weekends, sometimes at night.”
Now there wasn’t any smile on Watson’s face. He was going in for the kill. “Isn’t it difficult doing it piecemeal? How can you keep the flow going? Shouldn’t a writer be able to take a year off and give his book total concentration?”
Robin lit a cigarette. His eyes met Clyde Watson’s with merely a slight show of curiosity. Watson leaned closer. “Universal Lectures could book you on weekends. I’m sure we could ask for five hundred—maybe even work it up to seven fifty.”
“Doing what?”
“You pick a subject. I’ve read your columns.” Watson held up a file to prove his point. “You could talk about amusing incidents that occurred when you were a correspondent. Mix it with anything timely. Play it serious. Play it light. I can
promise
you a lot of work.”
“Why would anyone come to see me?”
“Look in the mirror, Mr. Stone. Women’s clubs book the guest artists. They’ve had it with the bald-headed professors or comedians without sex appeal. You’d bring some glamour into their lives. A war correspondent, a Pulitzer Prize-winner—you’d be in big demand at dinners and colleges.”
“And when would this leave me time to write my book?”
“Shelve it for now. Forget it. At the rate you’re going it will take years. But two years of lectures and you can save enough to take a year off. Go away somewhere. Then, who knows—maybe another Pulitzer Prize, for the book? You don’t want to be a local newscaster all your life, do you?”
It had sounded great. Even with the thirty-five percent the agency would take out of his fee for booking the lectures. He signed eagerly. His first lecture was in Houston. Five hundred dollars. One seventy-five back to the agency. That left three twenty-five. Then he read the small print: he had to pay his fare and hotel room. On that first lecture he had cleared thirty-three dollars. When he tried to break his contract, Watson merely smiled blandly. Sure he could break it—if he paid it off. That had been a year ago: a year of traveling tourist in planes, sandwiching his six-foot-three-inch frame into a narrow little seat, all-night
flights with fat women and crying babies as seat companions. And the terrible motels, except for a rare case like Philadelphia, when a good hotel suite was included in the deal.
Robin stared at the suite. It was a proper setting for his farewell performance. Thank God it was over: no more tourist planes, no more mingling with the guests … He could forget about the speech—the speech that had gotten so pat he could deliver it stoned. The laughs always came in the same place, the applause was always the same. In the end, even the towns looked the same. There was always the good-looking, toothy Junior League girl on the welcoming committee to greet him, eager to discuss Bellow and Mailer and the state of the arts. And after the first martini he knew she was going to wind up in the kip with him.
Well, he had humped his way across forty-six states. Now he was “Head of Network News.”
With the first lecture money he had taken an apartment. Nothing fancy but it was better than his hotel room. But he never had a chance to spend any time in it. There was the new desk, the big stack of yellow paper, carbons, even a new electric typewriter to replace his tinny portable. But the job at IBC took up his days, booze and broads took care of the nights, the weekends were spent traveling. Well, that was over now. He’d do a hell of a job at IBC, save every damn cent. And he’d write that book.
Sometimes Robin wondered about his writing. Did he really have it? The Pulitzer Prize didn’t prove anything. Journalism didn’t mean you had a book in you. And it was a book he wanted to do. He’d show the effect of war on men in politics—the resurgence of Churchill, the emergence of generals as politicians, Eisenhower—de Gaulle… . After that, he wanted to write a political novel. But most of all he wanted to see his book become a reality, see the yellow paper transformed into text.
Material things meant little to him. When he saw Amanda purr as she showed him a new pair of shoes, he sometimes wondered about his own lack of interest in possessions. Perhaps it was because he had always had them, at any rate until his father had died, leaving the interest on a four-million estate to Kitty. Upon her
death the principal of the estate would be divided between his sister Lisa and himself. Meanwhile on $12,000 a month, the glorious Kitty was having a ball. Funny how he always thought of his mother that way: “the glorious Kitty.” She was beautiful, small and blond—hell, she might have red hair by now. Two years ago, when she left for Rome, she was what he called a “plaid” blonde. Kitty said it was frosted. He grinned at the memory. For a fifty-nine-year-old broad she looked pretty good.
His life had been good as a kid—it had even been good through college. The old man had lived long enough to give Lisa the biggest wedding in Boston history and now she was living in San Francisco, married to a crew-cut idiot who was one of the richest real estate men on the West Coast. She had two wonderful kids-God, he hadn’t seen them in five years. Lisa was … let’s see he had been seven when she was born—she must be thirty now, a mother, all settled. And he was still on the loose. Well, he liked it that way. Maybe it came from a crack his father had made. He had been about twelve and his father had taken him out on his first round of golf.
“Approach the game as if it was a subject at school, like algebra—something you must master. You’ve got to be good in the game, son. Many a business deal is consummated on a golf course.”
“Does everything you learn have to help toward making money?” Robin had asked.
“It sure does, if you want a wife and family,” his father answered. “When I was a kid I dreamed of being Clarence Darrow. But then I fell in love with your mother and settled for corporate law. I can’t kick. I’ve become a very rich man.”
“But you loved criminal law, Dad.”
“Once you have a family you can’t do just what
you
want. They become your primary responsibility.”
Robin learned to play golf. He had a seven handicap when he graduated from Harvard. He had wanted to take a liberal arts course, then major in journalism. His father had been against it, just as he had been furious when he caught Robin reading Tolstoy and Nietzsche.
“That’s not going to help you with law,” he said.
“I don’t want to be a lawyer.”
Robin’s father stared at him and left the room. The next day Kitty gently explained how he owed it to his father to make him proud. Jesus, it sometimes seemed the only word he heard was “owe.” He
owed
it to his father to play football—it was a good image for a lawyer. So he broke every bone in his body to become the best quarterback Harvard had that season. When he graduated in 1944, he might have gone into corporate law but he was twenty-one and there was a war on, so he enlisted in the Air Corps, promising to return and complete law school. But it hadn’t happened that way. He saw a lot of action, got his captain’s bars and landed on page two of the Boston papers when he was hit in the shoulder—at least
that
made the old man proud of him! It was a minor wound but it aggravated an old football injury and Robin had to remain in a hospital overseas. To ease the monotony he wrote about life in the hospital and the experiences of the other soldiers. He sent his copy to a friend who was with the Northern Press Association. They ran it, and his career as a journalist began.
When the war was over, he joined NPA as a full-time correspondent. Of course he got the usual arguments from both Kitty and his father. He
owed
it to his father to study law. Fortunately, Lisa had met Crew Cut and the entire household was spinning with the preparations for her wedding. Five days later, the old man dropped dead while playing squash. Well, that’s the way he would have liked it, Robin thought. Dying with all his muscles intact and all his obligations to his family paid off.
Robin stood up and pushed the room-service table away. He was on his own, and he didn’t owe anyone in the world a goddam thing. And he was determined to keep it that way.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. The water sprayed hard and cold, knocking the last vestige of vodka from his brain. God, he had missed his Monday workout at the gym. And he had forgotten to call Jerry in New York and cancel the date. He grinned. Poor Jerry—he had probably gone to the gym alone. And Jerry hated the gym; he only went because
Robin forced him to go. Oddly enough, Jerry didn’t seem to mind being flabby at thirty-six.
Robin began to hum. He would call Jerry and Amanda as soon as he got into New York. They’d meet at the Lancer Bar and celebrate. But he wouldn’t tell them what they were celebrating—Gregory Austin had said he wanted to handle the announcement himself.
He began lathering the shaving cream on his face. God, he thought, I’d give anything to know just what’s happening at IBC this morning.
THREE
To
EVERYONE AT IBC
it began as an ordinary Monday morning. The “numbers” (as the weekly Nielsen ratings were called) were placed on every executive’s desk. The first sign of disturbance came at ten o’clock. It was triggered by a simple message: “Gregory Austin would like to see Danton Miller in his office at ten thirty.”
The message was transmitted from Mr. Austin’s private secretary to Susie Morgan, Danton Miller’s private secretary. Susie scribbled it on a pad and placed it on Mr. Miller’s desk alongside of the Nielsen ratings. Then she headed for the Powder Room. She passed the secretaries in the “bullpen.” They were immersed in their work; their typewriters had been clacking away since nine thirty. But the “Upper Echelon” (the VIPs’ personal secretaries) arrived at ten, with dark glasses and no makeup. They checked in, letting their bosses know they had arrived, then dashed to the Powder Room. Twenty minutes later they emerged, looking like fashion models. One of the more progressive secretaries had even installed a large magnifying mirror.
The Powder Room was crowded when Susie arrived. As she spat into her mascara, she casually dropped her contribution to the gossip session. Gregory Austin had sent for Danton Miller! The first girl who left the Powder Room passed Susie’s tidbit to a friend who worked in the legal department. In less than six minutes the news had traveled all through the building.
Ethel Evans was typing a release when the news hit the publicity department. She was so anxious to see Susie and get all the details that she didn’t wait for the elevator. She ran down four
flights and was breathless when she burst into the sixteenth-floor Powder Room. Susie was alone, adding a final dab of lip gloss, when Ethel found her.
“I hear your boss is getting his walking papers,” she said.
Susie finished her lips. She picked up a comb and teased her bangs, conscious that Ethel was waiting for an answer. She hoped her voice contained the proper tone of boredom when she finally said, “Isn’t that the usual Monday morning rumor?”
Ethel’s eyes narrowed. “This time I hear it’s on the level. Gregory has his weekly meeting with the heads of departments on Thursdays. To send for Dan on a Monday morning—well, everyone knows that has to mean the ax.”
Susie suddenly felt concern. “Is that what they say upstairs?”
Ethel felt happier. She had gotten a reaction. She leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “It certainly figures. Have you gotten a load of the numbers?”
Susie back-combed her hair. Her hair didn’t need it and she hated Ethel Evans. But if Danton Miller went, then
her
job went! She
had
to know if there was anything in the air. She knew Dan-ton’s job depended on the rise and fall of the numbers. It had never occurred to her that Gregory Austin’s summons could be ominous. In the Powder Room she had imparted the news as further proof of Dan’s importance. Now suddenly she felt panic. But she had to regain her poise—Ethel Evans was just a girl who worked in public relations.
She
was Danton Miller’s private secretary! Her voice was calm when she answered. “Yes, Ethel, I’ve seen the numbers. But the ratings of network News are hardest hit. Morgan White is President of News.
He
should be the man to worry. Not Danton Miller.”